From beneath my feet, in the public bar below, came a sudden roar and shriek of voices, then floor-shaking bangs and the sound of breaking glass. It was sounding like the bucket of blood had flowed over. It had been just another night on a five-week contract at a big old stone and brick pub in rural Australia. Service had been brisk, steaks, steaks and more steaks, and with my prep list and ordering done, I’d had taken a relaxing shower and was in my room.
Like many old country pubs there was accommodation upstairs and my room, which was part of my working package, was smack bang above the large bar. This was far from ideal. My day finished at 9 pm, and I had no interest in drinking downstairs with a mob who had started at 5 pm or even earlier. With the aid of ear-plugs I generally managed to get to sleep while the jukebox, pokies, big-screen sport and general hubbub went on til close.
I was just getting into bed when the uproar started in the bar below. I had to laugh. Twenty minutes earlier the electricity had failed at the pub, provoking cries of frustration. No power meant no tap beer, no pokies and no televised sport. Now with nothing left but expensive bottled beer and themselves – the pissed punters started taking out their frustration and boredom on themselves.
The sound of the fight moved to the front door which slammed open, losing panes of glass. From out in the street now came cries of battle. I dashed out into a long second floor verandah and, with a few other guests, watched as dozens of shouting men swirled around in full punch-on mode.
Quite a few held bottles of beer as they fought. One fella threw a few punches, paused to finish his beer, dropped the empty and got back into it. That got a big laugh from us spectators on the verandah. Two men wrestled across a car bonnet leaving dents. There were bangs as other cars had bodies slammed into them. A bloke holding a bar-stool wrestled with the publican trying to take back his property. There was a knock-out and the victim’s mates dragged him to the kerb. Gleeful teenagers on bicycles rode up, and from a semi-trailer across the road a driver yelled encouragement.
The proper biffo went on for a minute or so, then degenerated into yelled abuse and a couple of running scuffles. Cars sounded their horns, negotiating the uproar, drivers calling out in disgust. Someone’s cowboy hat lay unclaimed on the ground. Sirens and blue lights appeared; a police car pulled up. The fight was over now, but the grumbling and finger-pointing continued. Then the pub’s power came back on and a big cheer rang out. Now the men sheepishly filed back into the pub again, some roughly apologizing to each other, others rubbing punched arms and heads.
Early next morning I told the cleaning lady about the big brawl. She was unimpressed. “You should be here for Show Week. No-one parks anywhere near the pub.”
I’ve lived and worked in country towns but this place was special. An old established agricultural town, it was a tough and unforgiving place. Tempered by freezing winters, boiling hot summers and lots and lots of hard physical work, its residents were a somber, no-nonsense bunch. Jeans and utility trucks were re-patched – again and again. Things like specials on bulk poison-bait and used tractors for sale filled the noticeboard. In the Op-shop, the clothing was either on its last legs or something brand new but fully wussy like a floral shirt or board-shorts.
Men stood talking with their hands jammed in their back pockets, chests and jaws right out. I saw kids disciplined the old way, with serious slaps to the bum. It felt like public smiling was frowned upon and my attempts to strike up conversations with locals made them as wide-eyed and as jittery as spooked calves. I soon found it was better to nod and grunt like they did.
Even stranger was the loud siren that went off each day around 11 am. It issued from somewhere in town, building in one long continuous note to a head-splitting crescendo, then fading into silence. I asked the publican, the staff at the local chemist – even a few people in the street what this ominous signal meant. They’d must have heard it every day of their lives, but no-one knew anything about it. I found this lack of curiosity most unnerving.
So, I just did my job, working with a weedy bespectacled apprentice, just turned eighteen. Each night at shift’s end he would just about run to the front bar, still in uniform, and endeavor to go drink for drink with the tough mob of men there. Poor kid. He was the butt of many a joke, a hapless court jester among seasoned rough-neck drinkers. He’d take insult after practical joke, a panicky smile his only defense. Totally inebriated within an hour, he’d sometimes fall to the sticky floor or stumble outside and vomit against someone’s car. Being one of the boys took real dedication, but he was up for it.
As the weeks ticked by I found that out that the big brawl of the blackout had been just a carnival-scale manifestation of the manly culture centered around the pub. Punch-ups happened frequently. There was always someone having a go at someone else about something that had happened somewhere at some time. Usually out of respect for the ladies, and the publican’s investment, the pugilists would adjourn to the back car-park and shed blood and skin all over the tarmac. Occasionally, the more flamboyant and devil-may-care scrappers just went for it in main street and were rapidly tackled and arrested by the bull-like coppers.
Then one night like a gift from God - a two-fisted hard-hitting God - a rumble of bikies turned up. There were about a dozen or so big blokes; all thirsty for beer. We-ll, the place began to buzz with anticipation. I had finished my shift and could hear the change in tone from up in my room. Fellow guests, agricultural equipment and supplies salesmen, and blokes on a work contracts, began to gather on the balcony. Everybody, beers in hand, leaned over the edge waiting for the inevitable.
We didn’t wait long. A giant roar went up and once again dozens of men poured out of the pub. Below us the locals and the bikies went at it hammer and tongs. It was testosterone city, an absolute smorgasbord of machismo. Best of all, any discord or feud among the local boys was forgotten. They had a common enemy to fight!
But it was not to be, for for even as the two sides joined in battle, two police cars and a paddy wagon came screaming in. The police must have been notified earlier. Now there were actual cries of disappointment, some fella’s faces unhappily screwed-up like kids being grounded.The police, obviously with experience of this kind of thing, ran as a baton-wielding wedge between the two sides, then turned their backs on the bikies and pushed most of the locals back. The bikies, obviously with experience of this kind of thing, ran to their bikes. A few locals ran towards them screaming blue murder and there was a scuffle as the bikies kick-started their machines and sped off.
Oh dear, it was a major disappointment alright. With the police standing around, looking both serious and consoling, the mob began to calm down and went back into the pub. Though excitement levels remained high for the rest of the night I had the funny feeling that everyone knew the police would quickly stop any real violence.
On my days off I had caught the train out of town and stayed elsewhere, but on my least week I stayed in town for my days off. Exploring the old farming town I came across a building filled with loud voices. It was a battered old place, not in the best condition. There were gaps between the sidewalk and the walls of the building and I could see how the whole attty edifice sat on wooden stumps topped with squares of tin to keep the termites at bay.
The only signage was a cracked plastic sign saying Accommodation and an outside blackboard with a roast lunch special hastily chalked on it. The place smelt of stale beer as I peeked in the open door. In the gloom were men drinking, looking as disheveled as the building. These boys looked like the real dregs of town. They made the rough-as-guts drinkers at my pub look like neat office workers. Spooky faces turned towards me; cracked grimaces, busted noses, hard eyes glinting. I quickly walked on.
The next morning, describing the place ,I queried the cleaning lady about this feral excuse for a pub.
“Oh you don’t want to go in there,” she said, looking quite alarmed. “That place is a bucket of blood!”